


A Spoonful of Comfort

by Make_It_Worse



Series: Follower Appreciation [4]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Comfort, Connor is a human, Feelings Realization, Fluff, HK800 - Freeform, Hank is an android, M/M, Sick Fic, TLC, connor is a disaster, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 17:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18921328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: Burrowing into a soft pillow, his skin screams in protest at the drag of his clothes shifting against his skin. He goes still, willing his body to obey the voice. Sleep; he needs sleep now more than he needs air. Still, something niggles at the back of his mind.“Hank?” His voice sounds disturbingly weak and his heart begins to pound in time with his throbbing head.“I’m right here,” his partner answers, pressing a gentle hand to Connor’s forehead. “One-hundred and three point five.” The hand pulls back and Connor can see it glow through his closed eyelids. Cracking open one watery eye, he sees Hank’s synthetic skin close over luminescent fingers.If Hank is with him, he must be safe. It’s a simple truth that Connor doesn’t dispute.__Disaster!Human Connor, pushing himself too far. HK800 (Hank), his android partner, taking care of him.A sick fic for a sick friend <3





	A Spoonful of Comfort

"One foot in front of the other. Just keep moving, Connor," he doesn't have the energy to mutter it under his breath so he thinks it to himself instead.

"We've got a runner," Hank says into his radio with perfect inflection and not an ounce of exhaustion to his tone. He matches Connor's pace, which Connor would find curious if his head wasn't splitting open every time one of his feet made contact with the ground.

"Go," he tries to bark the order in Hank's direction, but it comes out as a wheeze. Eyes watering and nose running, he knows he looks like an absolute mess. Hank had told him as much when he arrived at the station this morning. And the morning before. And the morning before that as well.

The broad android shakes his head, checking his watch, "Twenty seconds." He offers no explanation, keeping his sights on the shoulders of the man they're both chasing.

Meaningless words issue out of Hank’s radio. Connor’s attention is on the chase, he can’t let this man get away.

_Why?_

The question startles him; he can’t remember. His lungs burn, his body aches, and his vision swims alarmingly. His eyes dart around, trying to stop the streets from swaying so nauseatingly.

“Five seconds,” Hank says in his usual tone, but the words needle into Connor’s skull. The toe of his shoe drags and he stumbles. It’s nothing—focus, Connor—he was doing something important, he knows it.

“One second,” the HK800’s voice reaches his ears as if from very far away even though Connor knows he’s right next to him. Strong hands grip like a vice around his bicep just as the cement surges up to greet his face.

Cold. He’s felt cold for days despite his burning forehead.

“One-hundred and three,” a familiar voice says quietly to no one in particular. It doesn’t matter; it doesn’t mean anything. He’s exhausted. He hurts. He wants to throw up so he does. Blinking blearily, he tries to wipe the sick from his mouth but someone beats him to it.

A warm, damp rag dabs at his chin, “Shhh.” He should be disturbed, but the presence is comforting. He’s not sure where he is and he has the vague feeling he was doing something important before he woke up to a world of nausea and pain.

“Sleep,” the same voice says from somewhere above him, urging him to lie back down. Large fingers card through his sweaty hair before pulling the blankets up to his chin. No one’s tucked him into bed in over a decade. He’d forgotten how nice it felt.

Burrowing into a soft pillow, his skin screams in protest at the drag of his clothes shifting against his skin. He goes still, willing his body to obey the voice. Sleep; he needs sleep now more than he needs air. Still, something niggles at the back of his mind.

“Hank?” His voice sounds disturbingly weak and his heart begins to pound in time with his throbbing head.

“I’m right here,” his partner answers, pressing a gentle hand to Connor’s forehead. “One-hundred and three point five.” The hand pulls back and Connor can see it glow through his closed eyelids. Cracking open one watery eye, he sees Hank’s synthetic skin close over luminescent fingers.

If Hank is with him, he must be safe. It’s a simple truth that Connor doesn’t dispute. The android’s nannying behavior usually infuriated him, but he had to admit he’s grateful for it now. He makes a mental note to thank Hank when sleep, warm and more demanding than his partner, consumes him.

A haze of memories less substantial than dreams slip through his fingers no matter how tightly he tries to hold onto them. Soft fingers tipping his head to spoon-feed him—what? Something bitter that makes him choke, but his skin hurts less for it. Something salty and warm that reminds him of his childhood home. Something cool and tasteless that eases the parchment feel of his throat.

Late afternoon sun assaults Connor’s eyes through a drawn curtain when he struggles into true consciousness. Hank’s posture changes, coming back online from what must’ve been stasis. The sight is slightly disturbing; Connor’s never seen someone sit so still before.

“How do you feel?” Hank asks, reaching out a naked hand to check his temperature again.

“Like someone ran me over with a bus then backed up and did it again,” Connor admits truthfully. “Where am I?” He’d expected to see the familiar trappings of his dingy little apartment. Even from the inside, he can tell he’s in someone’s home. It has a different feel than the impersonal boxes of apartment complexes.

“My house,” Hank answers as he pulls his hand away from Connor’s forehead. Connor scoots himself upright to take in the room, noting his head doesn’t hurt as much as it had the day before.

“Your hous—wait! The perp; did we get him?” He can tell by Hank’s expression that he’s unimpressed with Connor already trying to discuss work.

“Officers Miller and Chen got him. I radioed our position and they were able to head him off.” Hank gives him a stern look, more authoritative than Connor’s ever seen, “We aren’t going to talk shop until you’re better. You tried to run yourself, quite literally, into the ground.”

Connor tries to come up with a snappy retort, but Hank’s words jiggle free the memory of—well. He certainly wasn’t going to call it fainting. His body’s untimely decision to fail him; that’s what he’ll go with.

As if reading his mind, Hank says quietly, “You need to rest. You won’t be able to chase down a granny with a walker much less a teenage punk high on red ice until you do.”

“How d’you know that?” Connor can’t help but issue the challenge.

Hank raises an eyebrow at him and Connor feels a flush creep up his neck, “Because I’ll sit on you until I deem you well enough to work if I have to. I’m quite heavy; don’t test me.”

Connor’s eyes go a touch wide and he gulps. He swears he can see Hank’s eyes twinkle, but the dim lighting of the room makes it hard to know for sure. Hank mutters something about soup.

When he returns, Connor recognizes the smell of—

“Is that my _mother’s_ chicken soup?” Hank grins at him as he sets down a tray over Connor’s lap.

“It is,” he replies mischievously and Connor knows the android is going to make him work for a more in-depth answer. 

“And _how_ is it my mother’s soup—oh, no. She isn’t _here_ is she?” He asks the frantic question, but his head throbs angrily as he tries to whip it around the room.

“Calm yourself. I took the liberty of calling her. She walked me through it. I’ve never made soup before. It was interesting, to say the least.” Connor prods at the shredded chicken, lentils, parsnips, and various other organic vegetables steaming in front of him. The recipe was laborious and a soft pulse of warmth spreads through his chest at the gesture.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly then adds, “But, uh. How is it you even have the stuff to make this? You don’t eat. Where did you get the pans?”

Hank’s mouth sets in a wry tilt before he answers, “I have friends, you know. Human ones. I try to be accommodating when they come to call.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you,” Connor mutters, gloomily aware he can count his true friends on one hand. He eats a few quiet spoonfuls before pushing the tray away, feeling nauseous again. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can eat more than that.”

Hank’s eyes narrow slightly as he squints at Connor. He can almost feel the scan from how intensely his partner is looking at him. He’s about to ask why when a cold sweat prickles at his temples. Hank has a trashcan ready to go before Connor can even think the words _I’m going to be sick_.

He hurls up the meager contents of his stomach as Hank rubs soothing circles into his back. Retching weakly, his stomach muscles ache from excessive clenching and dispelling. Hank settles him back into the bed and fetches a cool rag for his head. Illness-born exhaustion grips him, but he knows he won’t be able to go back to sleep so soon after waking.

“Why don’t I read to you?” Hank asks and Connor nods, grateful that he can stop talking and thinking and just listen instead. Hank leaves, presumably to fetch a book and returns with a thick, hardback novel.

“What’d you pick?” Connor asks, scooting aside to give Hank room to sit. His partner’s gaze flicks from the chair beside the bed to the space Connor’s made for him. Connor flushes hideously, embarrassment temporarily edging out sickness. He’d done it without thinking and he blames whatever disease is gripping his body.

Before he can backpedal, Hank sinks onto the mattress, “ _The Cuckoo’s Calling_. It features a rough-around-the-edges private investigator who thinks he doesn’t need a partner. I’m sure you’ll relate splendidly to the main character.”

Connor shoves Hank’s shoulder in mock-outrage then motions for him to read. He feels himself drift after a few chapters, more interested in Hank’s deep voice. He can feel it reverberate against his cheek where his face is pressed into the firm plains of Hank’s chest and—

His chest?

Connor blinks into full consciousness, realizing he’s slouched onto his partner, “Sorry.”

He tries to struggle upright, but Hank’s arm reaches around him to keep him still, “It’s not a problem. Your vitals were doing much better when you were leaning on me.”

Connor tries and fails to contain a blush. He hasn’t been held by anyone in a long time. He’d almost forgotten how it felt. He nods and lies his head back down. The longer Hank reads, the more Connor can feel the illness try to gain a stronger foothold. Sensing Connor’s growing discomfort, Hank sets the book aside.

“Come here,” he murmurs gently, tilting Connor’s head up by his chin. Feather soft lips brush his forehead and Connor startles at the unexpected intimate touch. Hank mutters in irritation, “One-hundred and three again.” With a gentleness Connor didn’t think possible, Hank extricates himself from beneath his confused partner.

“Your temperature,” he supplies in response to Connor’s dazed expression. “The medicine’s worn off; you need more.”

By the time Hank returns with a small plastic cup filled with bittersweet green goo, Connor’s gotten his frantic breathing under control. He downs it with a grimace, wondering why children’s medicine tastes like candy while adults have to suffer amaroidal remedies.

“Would you like me to continue?” Hank nods at the book before Connor can summon the courage to ask why the hell Hank had kissed him. He nods, settling back against the pillows. Within ten minutes, Connor can feel the medicine getting to work.

“Feeling better?” Hank asks when he sees Connor lift his own hand to check his forehead.

“Still feverish,” he admits, letting his hand fall weakly to the bed. “So you can read my temperature with your hand?” He tries to make it sound conversational, but Hank’s eyes cut over to him curiously. Connor realizes too late that his partner can detect his rapidly beating heart.

“I can take your temperature with any part of my body. A hand is usually less disturbing to humans than, say, an elbow or a foot.” Connor chokes back a disturbed sound and Hank smiles, “I’m joking, Connor. I wouldn’t take your temperature with my feet.”

“But you can with your mouth?” Connor blurts out the question and immediately becomes interested in his cuticles.

“I can,” Hank answers cautiously, trying to suss out Connor’s feelings on the matter.

“Are your lips more sensitive then? Can they get a more accurate temperature?” Connor holds his breath, waiting for confirmation. Surely, Hank doesn’t…isn’t interested—is he?

Hank appears to mull over his answer for longer than Connor’s strictly comfortable with before he murmurs, “We can go with that explanation. If you want.”

“What if I don’t?” Connor breathes the question and his heart hammers frantically in his chest.

Hank turns to look him full in the face, fingers reaching out to cup Connor’s cheek, “Then we won’t.” His lips press once more to Connor’s forehead then the tip of his nose.

“We’ll discuss this more when you’re feeling better,” Hank says quietly, gesturing between them.

Connor nods as he sinks into the soothing warmth of his partner’s body, not inclined to argue.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).
> 
> Now featuring [this lovely art](https://twitter.com/piggyhoho_2nd/status/1146649278376316928) from Piggy Ho Ho


End file.
